


how am I gonna get myself back home?

by writerforlife



Category: Travelers (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, because everyone knows I adore communication, talking about our feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-26 23:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16690663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writerforlife/pseuds/writerforlife
Summary: After a fight with Trevor, Philip is kidnapped by a madman looking to harvest information about the future through historians. To apologize and protect the future, he has to stay alive.





	how am I gonna get myself back home?

**Author's Note:**

> I'm SO excited for Season 3 -- so excited that I rewatched Season 2 then wrote a giant fic. This was intended to be shorter, but I got carried away. I did put graphic descriptions of violence; for anyone who wants more details, please see the end!!
> 
> This is intended to be set somewhere in season 3 assuming that the season 2 cliffhanger gets resolved through *hand waving* plot. Please leave your thoughts! I'd love to talk to anyone about this amazing show.

**** Philip is alone in the garage when a knock comes. 

He turns to the computer to what he thinks normal college students look at and walks to the door, wondering if it’s one of his teammates in crisis or just another homeless person to turn away. It’s the wrong time for a crisis, early in the morning and bright outside. He was briefly considering going for a walk, but decided to test himself on historical knowledge instead. His eyes are burning. He slightly wants to shoot up or use eye drops. It’s a normal day. 

When he opens the door, Trevor’s standing there with a pastry box. 

“Hey,” he says. “Donuts?” He shoulders his way inside, grinning as he sets the box on the table and opens it. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” Philip asks. 

“Learning basic physics?” Trevor shoves a chocolate donut into Philip’s hand, still smiling, before settling in on the couch. “Somehow, Phil, I think I already know enough.”

“You think you’re smart, don’t you?” 

“I know I’m smart.” 

“Do you, now?” Philips sits on the couch next to him, nudging their shoulders together. They’ve been doing it more often.  _ Trevor’s  _ been here more often, more than any other member of the team. Carly and Marcy show up, sure, along with MacLaren from time to time, but Trevor’s a constant presence, a steady thrum of positive energy. He brings schoolwork or tinkers, devising inventions for missions or for fun. He asks for Philip’s help, dragging him away from the screen, and they work together. 

“Can I spend the night?” Trevor asks. “Gary’s been…” Trevor trails off and shrugs. 

“Weird?”

“Weird, yeah.” Trevor bites into his donut, tilting his head to the side. “I’m protecting them. In a way.”

“How?”

“I lied. I told them Trevor—their Trevor—wasn’t abused by the coach.” Trevor dips his head. “It’s a weird thing to think about. Something happening to the body while I wasn’t in it. To him. Explains a lot about the kid, if you think about it.” 

Philip makes a humming noise, weighing his words. When Trevor gets like this, considering the implications of death and humanity, who deserves to live and who deserves to die, he has to choose what he says with care. “You couldn’t have known. The Director didn’t know.  _ I  _ didn’t know.” 

Trevor’s eyes bore into him. “Would you have told me?” 

Philip swallows hard. “You have a right to know. It’s your body, now.”

Trevor studies his own hands. “Either way, thank you for the help. I suppose I owe you for saving my life, too.” He quiets. “With Abby.” 

“You were going to die for nothing.” He exhales, and turns to face Trevor. “I wasn’t going to let that happen. And even if it had been worth it, I would’ve tried to find another way. Not much is worsing losing you.” Philip clears his throat as Trevor stares at him in wonder. “Or any member of the team.”  
“You’re a terrible historian,” Trevor whispers. “Too concerned with changes you shouldn’t worry about.”

“And you’re a terrible time traveler. You tried to save Grace.”

“We’ve all had our fair share of mishaps.” Trevor leans back on the couch, but touches his hand to Philip’s stomach. They’ve been doing casual touches lately. Philip’s never experienced it before, not in the future, not here. Jenny was never one for cuddling after they fucked, and nobody hugged him in the future. “Does it ever hurt?”

Philip thinks of the scar striping his abdomen. Jenny had touched it but never commented, like it wasn’t important enough for her to ask about. “Not really. Yours?”

Trevor glances down at his torso. “Nanites did their job. Slowly, but they did it.”

“I’m glad.” Philip shivers as Trevor removes his hand. Something’s been growing between them, and they’ve both cultivated, but naming it feels precarious, like the fragile thing will shatter. “We’ve had a hell of a time.”

“Have you been using?” Trevor’s asked him every week since the incident with the eyedrops, tentatively and urgently. His team cares about his addiction, but Trevor’s different. Trevor’s been here after he came home from meetings, has coaxed details from him and locked needles away. 

He cares about Trevor. 

He can see that Trevor cares about it.

He just have to convince himself of it. 

“No,” Philip replies. “Not at all.”

“Good.” Trevor locks his jaw in his heroic manner and nods. “I’m proud, you know. Addiction’s a terrible thing to fight.”

Philip’s face heats as he glances at his lap.  _ He’s proud.  _ It shouldn’t feel as weighty as it does, Trevor’s pride, but it’s a thing he can wrap around his shoulders and take comfort in when he feels addiction dragging him away. 

“Thank you,” he says. It’s all he can manage. 

 

#

 

Their routine solidifies over the next few weeks. 

Trevor spends the nights more frequently. Philip stays up late, so he sees him curled up in the loft, impossibly innocent but with his brow still furrowed, and watches longer than he should. When he falls asleep sprawled-out on the couch, he finds a blanket carefully laid over him and a fresh pot of coffee upon waking. 

Trevor spends time building things or doing homework. Sometimes, he asks Philip for help. He doesn’t think he really needs help. Philip sits closer than they’re supposed to.

They go on missions with the rest of the team, some monotonous, others dangerous. One leaves Philip with a massive bruise sprawling over his side—a drug dealer who sold a particular mix that would cause ia nationwide drug epidemic. While fleeing, he delivered a rousing kick to Philip’s stomach. In the bathroom, he gingerly twists to apply bruise cream to the watercolor of blue, purple, and black that ropes over his pale skin, shirt discarded. A hiss of pain escapes just as the door opens. Trevor steps inside, brow knitted. 

“That looks awful,” Trevor says. 

“Looks worse than it feels.” Philip squeezes more cream onto his fingers and twists to rub it onto his lower back. 

Trevor makes a humming noise and guides Philip so he’s sitting on the close toilet, then takes the bruise cream. “I saw you go down. I wanted to stop when I saw you didn’t get up.”

Goosebumps rise on Philip’s skin as Trevor gently applies cream to the bruise, fingers ghosting across his stomach.  “Mission comes first. Remember our protocols.”

“Yeah.” Trevor shrugs. “But you’re important.”

Suddenly, everything feels too intimate.  _ Trevor can do better than you _ , he thinks.  _ Trevor deserves better than an addict.  _

“Am I?” Philip whispers. 

Trevor looks up from his work to stare at him. His eyes hold a certain gravity, one that transcends physical form. Philip saw it in Trevor’s last body, when they trained together and he looked at him with an analytical, soul-searching gaze. 

“Absolutely,” he says. “I know that. You’re special, and for more than what you can do with your mind. I wish you’d realize that.”

Philip doesn’t respond.

He feels the urge to shoot up. 

 

#

 

When Trevor’s gone, he lines the needles in front of him and sits on the couch. His heart pounds. He hasn’t shot up in so long. He remembers how, the same way he remembers how to breathe or sleep. He thinks he should ask Marcy about dosages. He wonders if Jeff has hurt Carly recently, and thinks he wants her  _ away  _ from him. He wonders how MacLaren and Kat are doing. He thinks Trevor won’t be here until later, so he won’t see. 

He sits and stares at the needles. He’s gotten the eyedrops out, too. 

_ I’m proud, you know.  _

Drugs make everything easier. Soften the terrible events, softens the blows he knows are inevitable. The world’s harsh corners round, so when he bumps against them inevitably, he bruises rather than cutting himself open. He can only lose so much blood. He can only know so much about who will live and who will die before he goes insane, and he can’t bring Trevor with him, because no matter how hard he tries, Trevor will never understand what it’s like to  _ know.  _

_ Addiction’s a terrible thing to fight.  _

Because he is an addict. Philip Pearson, addict. He tacks it onto his name; it belongs there, a shackle and a curse and every other terrible thing he can think of. 

When the needle slides into his arm, it feels inevitable. The drugs hit his system, and he thinks,  _ I’m relapsing _ . He didn’t want to relapse. He really didn’t. But the world’s crushing his lungs, and this is the only way to clear them. 

Impossibly, the door open.

Trevor walks in, disappointment written on every line of his face. Vaguely, Philip thinks that he would’ve preferred him to be angry. 

“You’re high,” Trevor says. 

Philip wants to apologize. He wants to say it won’t happen again. But then Trevor wouldn’t leave him alone. “Yeah,” he says.

“You said you were clean.”

“Not now.” Tears rise in his eyes. He turns away from Trevor. Can’t let Trevor see him cry. Then he’ll ask what’s wrong, because he’s terribly kind. 

“Damn it!” Trevor shouts. Philip flinches. Trevor never shouts.

“What’s wrong?” he asks. He thinks he asks it multiple times, because Trevor stares at him, his eyes bright. Angry. 

“What’s wrong, Philip?” He makes a sweeping motion at the needles. “You’re doing this again! You’re going to kill yourself like this, and I don’t think you care.” 

Philip stumbles to his feet. “I don’t need you to tell me what to do.”

“You don’t?” Trevor laughs harshly. “When I’m not here, you get high. Don’t you see how that’s a problem?”

“It isn’t. I don’t need you.” He makes his feet move toward the door. He has to get out. Away from Trevor. Away from his drugs. Because deep down, he doesn’t want to take more. He hates himself for taking what he did. But those words won’t come. 

“You’re weak, Philip,” Trevor calls.

Philip freezes.

“You’re weak. You won’t ask for help, and you won’t admit that you still have a problem.”

Something cracks inside him. Everyone else thought him weak, tethered to his drugs. That was okay. Trevor, though, wasn’t allowed to think that. Not with the thing budding between them. “When I’m clean,” Philip starts, “I want you gone.”

He slams the door as he leaves. 

  
  


#

 

He doesn’t know where he’s walking. He’s walking just to walk. Just to move away.

He could get more drugs. More drugs would erase everything, even Trevor’s words.

_ You’re weak.  _

He knows where he could get them.

He imagines Trevor’s face crumpling. Again.

As his head clears, as he comes down, he realizes what he’s done. “Fuck,” he mutters. 

He’s so deep in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the people following him until there are four of them trailing his footsteps. Dread gathers in his chest as he opens up the comm. Would Trevor even want to hear from him? Why are the men following  _ him _ ? 

“Guys?” he whispers. “I’m being followed. Anyone else being watched?”

“Where are you?” MacLaren immediately asks.

“Nothing here. I’m with David,” Marcy says. “I thought you were in the garage all day?”

Philip hesitates. “Change of plans.”

“What change?” Carly asks. 

“Nothing. Just going for a walk.” Philip tucks his hands into his pockets and glances behind him. “Oh, God. There are more of them.” 

“Trevor?” MacLaren asks. “You near him?”

Trevor clears his throat. “Yeah, boss. I’ll find him.”

Philip is about to tell him that, no, he doesn’t need rescuing, but one of the men steps out in front of him. He stumbles back, wishing he’d paid more attention when Carly and Marcy tried to teach him about combat. 

“Hello, Philip,” the man says. 

A needle jabs into his neck. 

He falls unconscious to the sound of the team chattering in his ears. 

 

#

 

He wakes to Trevor’s voice and a splitting pain in his head.

“Philip,” Trevor says in his ear. “Philip, can you hear me?”

Philip tries to move, but his wrists are tied to a chair. The slight attempts to free himself are enough to send his head spinning. “How’d you activate my comm?”

“Slapdash hacking job. Can only support one channel. Where are you?”

Philip glances at his surroundings. Gray walls with mold crawling over the corners. Dirty gray floor. No natural light, only a swinging yellow bulb overhead and his chair in the center. “I don’t know. Don’t think we’ve ever been here before.”

“We’re working on your location,” Trevor says. 

The door bangs open. 

A man in a neat black suit with blonde hair strides in with clean, measured steps, smiling at Philip, teeth shining. His wide smile sets his heart pounding and leaves him uncomfortable. “Glad to see you’re awake,” he says, voice smooth as a blade. 

“Who is that?” Trevor snaps. 

“Who are you?” Philip asks. 

“You’ll know soon enough,” the man says. He snaps his fingers, and two other men dressed in gray enter, each holding knives. Philip strains against the ropes around his wrist. 

“What’s happening, Philip?” Trevor says. 

“Men?” The boss snaps his fingers again, and the men come forward with the knives. 

“You aren’t going to be able to talk to me much longer,” Philip whispers. “I really hope you find me.” 

“What are they going to do? Philip! Tell me where you are,” Trevor shouts into the comm. He says something unintelligible to the rest of the team, voices running together like the timelines he can’t keep straight without the yellow pills. “Philip!” 

Philip screams as they carve the device from his neck, the knife tearing his flesh apart. Trevor’s voice crackles, static ringing in his ears.

“Philip!” 

Blood trickles over his skin, down to the collar of his white shirt, into the tips of his hair. The kidnappers untie his wrists and push him to the ground. The last wisps of Trevor’s voice echo in his ears as one of men produce a knife from his belt, and grins. 

“We have a few questions.” The man maintains his smile. “I’m Graham Grinter. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Philip.” 

 

#

 

Grinter’s fists slam against his face again and again.

Philip slams against the floor. 

“I heard you were an addict,” Grinter said. “Doesn’t that mean you’re used to pain?”

Pain, in all its variations, has been his most intimate friend in the twenty-first. He’s known the agony of addiction, the the horror of knowing who will live and who will die, the hurt of seeing those close to him hurt. That one hurts the most. He’d take all the pain in the world if his team didn’t have to go through it. 

“What do you need?” Philip asks. 

“Quite a bit,” Grinter says. “You’ll give me what I want. But we need to deliver a message first. I know you’ll enjoy it.” 

The bruises and cuts on his body say otherwise. 

 

#

 

They position him to a chair, strapping his wrists to the sides. His head lolls forward, but a rough hand drags him up by the hair. Grinter grins at him, keeping his hand buried in his hair while holding a knife to Philip’s throat with the other. 

“You’re going to read a message,” Grinter says. “Your team is worried.” 

“No,” Philip grits out. 

A fist slams against his face. Again. Again. Again. He thinks of how the real Trevor Holden died and wonders if this is where he’ll die, strapped to a chair in an abandoned warehouse. Grinter’s ring slices his cheekbones, the skin under his eyes, his jaw; blood covers his face, and he can feel his eyes swelling. 

“Read the goddamn message.” Grinter leans close enough for Philip to smell coffee and cigarettes on his breath. “Or I’ll have to convince you to read it.” He motions at a table of tools Philip hasn’t had the courage to look at it. “Do you want that?”

“No,” he whispers. 

“Good.” He pats Philip’s cheek twice, then yanks him back by his hair to expose the line of his throat. Another man presses record on a camera, then turns on a computer monitor. Words flash across the screen. Philip swallows hard, the line of the knife grazing his throat. 

“I am safe,” he says slowly. “I will be returned to my team unharmed.” The screen changes, showing a new series of words. “Graham Grinter is a visionary who is mining information from historians. My knowledge will be donated and used to further Mr. Grinter’s mission to improve the state of the world. With the gift I give Mr. Grinter through his harvesting technology—” His lump rises in his throat, but he pushes it back. “The world will be a better place. This is not intended to harm me. No further harm will come to me.” The screen flashes again. “Do not attempt to find me. Do not attempt to discern my location. If you try to take me before the research is done, here is a sample of what will happen.”

Philip’s mouth goes dry as he realizes the wrist restraints are attached to wires. The two men in the corner move from the shadows toward a machine; one moves to attach something to his neck, while the other adjusts the wires. Philip stares at the camera, breathing heavily, and thinks of Marcy or Carly having to watch him be tortured, thinks of MacLaren’s frustration when he realized rescue may not be an option. He thinks of Trevor watching every jolt of electricity course through him. How would he feel? Would it make him angry? 

Would he defy Grinter and come for him? 

The man flips the switch. A scream tears from his throat as electricity snaps through him. The moment lasts for an eternity, shattering his bones and setting his blood alight. He can feel every cell quaking, every vein protesting. When the current dies, he’s left sweating and shaking. 

“We should show them again,” Grinter says, leaning closer to him with a clean smile. Philip opens his mouth, not sure of what he’ll say, but Grinter snaps. “Jones!” 

Another wave crashes through him. He thinks of Trevor smiling at him in the morning, how that sent a jolt through, and how life can change so quickly. Knowing the others will be watching, he tries not to scream, but the sound escapes him. When the electricity turns off, he’s left panting, slumped in his chair. 

Grinter yanks him up by his hair, forcing him to face the camera and the screen. 

“Do not…” Philip coughs, tasting blood in his mouth. “Do not…” 

The knife approaches his neck. 

“Do not try to find me,” Philip chokes out. “Or my body will be returned.” 

The man switches off the camera, and Grinter smiles. 

“Now,” he says. “For the real business.”

 

#

 

They drag him to a sparse bed in a closet-like room with a camera, row of tools, and another machine. In all his time in the twenty-first and the future, he hasn’t seen anything like it. 

Grinter’s men haul him onto the bed as Grinter watches approvingly, hands folded before him. They strap his wrists and ankles down and shove a rubber block into his mouth. Panic rushes through him as someone turns on the machine; he trembles, sweat pouring over his face and neck, and thinks how it wasn’t so bad last time. 

“You may wonder what I’m going to do.” Grinter’s shoes click as he paces the floor. “Your brain holds multitudes, Philip. Beautiful volumes of information about the past, the present, the future. We’re going to take what we need. It will be much easier if you give it to us willingly.”

He closes his eyes. In his training back in the future, they taught him that people may try to take the information the belonged to him.  _ Close off your mind. Focus your thoughts on one thing, and one thing only. Protect information about the future at all costs.  _

“I assume you’re good,” Grinter said. “The others before you have been good, too. I break them all, Philip, and you’ll be no different. Ready?” He nods at the other men.

Pain courses through him. 

_ Close off your mind.  _

Even as shattering sensations shoot through him, he imagines shutting every door in his mind, imagines locking them, imagines setting the pathways on fire. 

“Turn the machine up,” Grinter says. 

He tries to focus his thoughts. He flips through the team, thinking about Mack, Marcy, Carly, finally settling on Trevor. He remembers Trevor dragging him out of Aleksander’s house, Trevor sitting with him after, Trevor gasping on the floor with blood pouring from his stomach, Trevor running from the van with the bomb, ready to die,  _ Trevor.  _

The pain stops. 

“Who is he?” Grinter asks. 

Philip closes his eyes. 

“Don’t you want to tell me? Shouldn’t I know?”

“Go to Hell,” Philip grits out.  _ Go to Hell, go to Hell, go to… _

Pain. 

Caught him off guard. 

It’s like his mind is being shredded. Torn apart. Decimated. He’s screaming, drowning in his own torture, sinking into the terrible sounds ripping from his throat. He’s all too aware of the camera flickering before him, recording, transmitting. Who will see him like this? 

“Nothing, boss,” one of the men says. 

“You’re good.” Grinter leans close to Philip, taking the block out of his mouth. “But we’re better. Second round?”

“Please.” The word escapes Philip before he can think about it. 

“What are you scared of? If you let me, I can make this painless.” 

“Please. Can I have a… can I have a break?”

“A break?” Grinter laughs. “Some water, maybe?” He strides to the countertop and grabs a glass of water. As he sloshes it in the glass, he grins. “Would you like a drink, Philip?”

The water splashes against his face and drips down his neck. 

“Next round,” Grinter says. 

Philip closes his eyes.

“We’ll have some questions next.”

 

#

 

“What are you?” Grinter asks. 

“I’m Philip Pearson.”

Electricity jolts through him. His grinds his teeth together. They think they can turn into something less than human. A source for information. 

“What  _ are  _ you?”

“Philip Pearson.” 

A part of him even believes it. 

 

#

 

“Do you think they’re going to come for you?” 

Grinter sits outside his cell, watching him bleed from his nose and writhe in pain. His head’s going to explode. He feels it. He can feel Grinter sifting through his mind. They’ve already gotten facts about the past, minutia about the future. His thoughts have been stolen, and there’s nothing he can do about it. 

“So many thoughts about  _ him _ .” Grinter stands and grins. “Do you think he’ll find you?”

Philip runs his hands through his hair, fighting back tears and dragging in a breath. 

_ No.  _

“I cut out any way they have to locate you.”

He touched his neck, where Grinter had sliced out his comm. It’s an absence. He’s used to having his team with him at every step. He used to not being alone. If he closes his eyes, he can picture Trevor tinkering in the garage, across from the computer while Philip worked. 

“Do you love him?” 

“Stop,” Philip grits out. 

“You want me to stop talking?” 

“Please.”

“Then you don’t mind another round?”

Desperation rises in Philip’s chest as some of Grinter’s men march him from the cell, his hands cuffed behind his back. As they strap him to the table, he closes his eyes, picturing Trevor’s smile, picturing the rest of the team storming in to save him. Maybe Trevor would hold him. He’s spent so much time saving himself that it feels nearly impossible that someone will save him. Grinter smiles as Philip trembles. 

“Are you afraid?”

“No,” Philip whispers.  _ Yes.  _ He’s never felt fear so deep before. Grief, loss, discomfort, but never fear. Never so deeply for himself. 

_Close your mind._ _  
__Protect the future._

It would be easier to give in.

He’s never had much faith in easy.

#

 

“What are you?”

“Traveler 3326.”

His knees slams against concrete. Blood soaks through his pants. He’s exhausted. He thought he knew pain from withdrawal. This is new. Nobody’s coming for him. Grinter won’t stop.

“What are you?”

“Traveler 3326.”

“Are you sure?” A man drags a knife across his back. Once. Twice. He wishes he could forget the cuts. He can’t. He can’t forget anything. His back’s a ravaged, painful mess before Grinter leans close again. “What are you?”

“Philip Pearson. Traveler  _ three, three two, six _ ,” he grits out every number as the man digs the knife in deeper.

Grinter clicks his tongue. “We still have work to do.”

 

#

 

Philip thinks about Trevor a lot.

He thinks about the last words Trevor said to him before he walked out.  _ You’re weak.  _ And maybe he was right. If anyone knows about strength and weakness, it’s Trevor. Trevor, who’s been transferred from body to body more times than any of them could imagine. Trevor, who’s kinder than anyone Philip has ever met. Trevor, who has people who love him here. 

Trevor, who could do better than Philip. 

The thought consumes him as he lays in his cell at night, hands zip-tied to the bed too tight for him to be comfortable. Philip has nobody in the twenty-first, nobody who really cares about him. His host’s family doesn’t give a shit about him. Ray has other people to take care of. His team has their family. 

Tonight, he inhales and closes his eyes, imagining Trevor smiling at him. He imagines Trevor bursting through the door and taking him away from all this, caring for him in the way he’s been wanting to be cared for. Maybe he would kiss him. 

Any moment, Grinter will come for him. Grinter’s men will drag him from his bed, wrists raw from the night. Grinter will stride in as they strap him to the machine, smiling his terrible smile. Grinter will ask clipped, direct questions as the machine rips into his mind and tears his thoughts apart. Grinter will make comments about how he thinks, what he thinks about. He will vomit, and his nose will bleed, and he will feel as if he’s being torn apart and shredded. He feels as if his limbs will fall off and he’ll never walk again. They will toss him to the floor and yank him up by his hair. He will feel as if he’s dying. 

He screws his eyes shut. 

The door opens. 

The day starts. 

He didn’t sleep.

He wonders if Trevor’s searching for him. 

 

#

 

“What are you?” 

The pain is coming. The blood is coming. All lows. No highs. They hurt him with blades and electricity and fists. It will never stop. Nobody will come for him. These are things he knows for sure. 

“What are you?” 

He curls his hands into fists, struggling to his hands and knees. Someone kicks him down, then grabs his shirt collar.

“Tell me what you are.”

“An experiment,” Philip whispers. Something inside him fragments. “I’m an experiment.”

 

#

 

They throw him in his cell after that, not even bothering to put him on the cot. He’s deposited on the floor. But that’s what they do to experiments. Experiments don’t get blankets. They get tossed on the floor, clothes torn and body bruised. Blood drips from his nose. He doesn’t wipe it away. His head aches. He squints against the light. 

The realization that Grinter will kill him eats away at the little strength he has.

Because Grinter will kill him.

He will leave his body somewhere for the team to find, or worse, deliver him directly to their doorstep. Dead, the evidence of what happened to him written over his skin. 

He wishes, more than anything, that he could apologize to Trevor. 

Grinter opens the cell door and stride in. He yanks him up by his hair and forces Philip to look him in the eye. His face swims before him. Something’s  _ wrong.  _

But before he can say anything, there’s a shout from down the hallway. 

#

“There’s a problem!” one of Grinter’s men shouts. 

Grinter sighs and clicks the lock on Philip’s cell shut. “I’ll return for you.”

Philip curls into himself, the floor cool against his cheek. He’s learned to savor these moments, because he doesn’t know how many he has left. 

The cell door opens. 

He fights back tears. 

How much more of this can he take?

“Philip!”

He’s imagining his name. He hasn’t heard it in so long. 

“Philip,” someone says. 

“I’m an experiment,” Philip mutters in response. 

Calloused hands roll him onto his back. Every slash, every burn, every bruise they inflicted on him screams out, and he curls away, a wince escaping his lips. He screws his eyes shut, folding into himself. He has to protect himself. 

“Philip, come on. Eyes open.”

Philip forces himself to open his eyes. Trevor kneels above him, emotion pouring from his cracked-open face. Something sorrowful shines through — Philip has seen him give the same look to people about to die. Philip parts his chapped lips, but only a choked sound escapes. His eyes stray to the ceiling, to the bars that held him, and he  _ knows _ , God, he knows, that Trevor isn’t here. It would be too good. Too perfect. This timeline wouldn’t be so kind to him. 

“Phil, please.”

He forces himself to focus on Trevor as hands cup his face gently. 

“That’s it. Eyes open. Everyone else is coming.”

“Don’t need everyone else.” Philip coughs. “Maybe Marcy. Doctor. I’m doing real bad, Trev.” Trevor pulls him closer, and suddenly, he’s cradled against his chest, one of Trevor’s hands threaded into his matted hair. 

“Okay, tough guy.” Trevor’s hands work at his tattered shirt, easing around the bloodstains. He inhales sharply. Philip turns his face away. He  _ knows _ what his back looks like. He never meant for anyone to see it. “What did they do to you?”

“Trev,” he whispers.

He hovers his fingers over the criss-crossed knife wounds. “They hurt you.”

“Kidnappers do that.”

“ _ Stop _ .” Trevor’s voice trembles. “Others are coming. I’m going to protect you until they’re here. They’re clearing the way to get you out.”

“I’m sorry.” Fogginess clouds Philip’s thoughts. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for getting taken. I’m sorry if I hurt you. I’m sorry for not being good enough. I’m just… I’m sorry.”

“How sweet.”

Grinter. 

“You won’t touch him.” Trevor’s gravelly voice rocks through the cell. He positions himself between the kidnapper and Philip, every muscle in his body tensed to attack. 

“I already did, son. Knocked him around real good. You got my videos?” Grinter moves closer. Trevor leans forward. “You heard how he screams? Do you know he called for you? He thought about you. He thought you would give him  _ strength  _ as I tore his mind apart.” 

“Stop,” Trevor says. 

“What are you?” Grinter snaps.

“An experiment,” Philip mutters. He thinks he’s said something wrong. Pain cracks across Trevor’s face.

“See what I did to your boyfriend?”

Trevor launches forward with a snarl. 

As he begins to fight the other men, Grinter kneels next to Philip. Something’s wrong. He’s too pale, and color has drained from his lips. 

“What did you do?” Philip asks.

“They can’t take me alive. You know that.” Grinter gasps, a smile ghosting across his face. “You were fun.” With his last breath, he drives a knife into Philip’s stomach, twists it cruelly, then wrenches it out. He falls to the floor, eyes open and teeth bared in a smile.  

Philip collapses next to him.

Blood collects in his mouth and dribbles past his lips. He props himself up on his elbow. “Trevor.” He means for it to be a cry, but it’s barely a whisper. Trevor’s pummeling more of Grinter’s men, not looking his way. “Trevor, please.”

Trevor knocks the last man to the ground. 

Blood gushes from his stomach as his elbow gives out. A choked cry escapes him, and that’s when Trevor turns. Horror passes over his face in a swift takeover. Philip blinks. Maybe the expression will fade.

Trevor’s on his knees next to him. 

“Philip!”

He cries out as Trevor presses down on the wound. Pain vibrates through him, almost worse than being shot or electrocuted, because Trevor’s panicked expression swims before him. Trevor shouts at someone, then cups his face with bloodied hands. He whispers Philip’s name, reverently, disbelievingly, stroking his hair. Nobody’s ever looked at him like that, not anyone he had in the future, not anyone he’s known in the present.

Except Trevor. 

“You’re going to be okay,” Trevor says. “You’ll be okay. You’ll be fine. Marcy!” 

Philip doesn’t think he’ll be okay. He thinks he’ll bleed out or die from the rest of his wounds. He thinks Trevor will carry his body out, and that he will be buried. He wonders who will mourn for him. If anyone except the team will notice his absence in the world. 

He doesn’t tell Trevor any of this. 

Trevor’s shouting. The rest of the team bursts into the cell. Pain mounts, and he’s either screaming or crying, he doesn’t really know. This feels like the worst kind of high, the type where he can feel every cell of his body protesting, the type where his mind is begging him to stop but he  _ needs  _ the drugs to keep his sane, he needs the drugs to keep him from catching fire. He feels like he’s watching himself bleed out from above, watching Trevor’s face contort, watching Marcy’s hand hover over the stab wound.

He hears his name once more before he passes out. 

 

#

 

Regaining consciousness is like coming down from a bad high.

Moments come to him in flashes.

His head is in someone’s lap. Hands sift through his hair. Too gentle to be Grinter. Worried voices float around him, just out of reach, so he doesn’t try to make sense of them.

He blacks out again. 

His wounds burn. People hold him down on a table. He screams. Someone jabs a needle into his arm. 

He falls back into darkness.

Pain consumes him. It’s dark outside. Trevor sits beside him, elbows resting boyishly on his knees. He’s probably sleeping. Probably needs it. Philip manages to turn his head and blink at him, but his tongue feels heavy.

He closes his eyes again. 

_ Wake.  _ Trevor’s still at his bedside.

_ Sleep.  _ He dreams of hands tearing his thoughts apart.

_ Wake.  _ Marcy administers medication.

_ Sleep.  _ He thinks that maybe he is an experiment, but thinking that means Grinter wins. 

_ Wake.  _

He opens his eyes for good, and the garage’s atmosphere hits him in one powerful wave. As curls his hands into the blankets, he inhales, ignoring the pain it causes him. 

“You’re awake.”

Philip turns to see Trevor sitting at his bedside, hands folded together like he’s praying. 

“You stayed,” Philip says. His voice is barely more than a croak. “Where are the others?”

Trevor doesn’t meet his eye. “They’ve been in and out.”

“For how long?”

“A week.” Trevor presses his hand to his mouth, glancing over Philip. Dark circles rest under  “He did a number on you.”

“You saw it all.” Philip traces circles in the bedsheets. “The videos.”

Trevor sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“I thought about you,” Philip blurts. “Every day. About how sorry I was that we fought, and how I never thought I’d see you again. I thought he was going to kill me.”

A shadow passes over Trevor’s face. “Me too.”

“Trevor—”

“You’re still healing. Rest.” Trevor stands and heads to the loft without looking at Philip again. “Call if you need anything.”

“Trevor,” he murmurs.

Trevor turns. 

“Can you… stay close?” 

He nods, and Philip feels like he can rest. 

 

#

 

Philip’s curled into bed when he hears quiet voices. 

“It’s my fault,” Trevor says. A terrible note sneaks into his voice. 

“You can’t think like that,” MacLaren replies. “You’ll drive yourself insane.”

“You didn’t see him. Not like I did.” Trevor clears his throat. “He was curled into a ball, blood everywhere, face bruised. He told me he was an experiment. Because that’s what they made him believe. A week, they had him.” He goes silent. “And when you guys weren’t here. He screamed in his sleep. I’d hold his hand.”

“Jesus, Trevor.”

“They broke him. And it’s my fault they had him in the first place.” 

“Why? You said that for a week straight without explaining once.”

“We fought.” Philip closes his eyes as Trevor stands and begins pacing. “It wasn’t good, Mack. Bad things all around. He got taken when he stormed off.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“I should’ve…” Weight settles down next to Philip on the bed. “I should’ve gone after him. I should’ve torn the Earth apart until I knew he was okay.”

“Trevor?”

“That’s what you do, Mac.” He clears his throat again. “When you care about someone. And it’s beyond dangerous.”

“Why?” 

“Everyone I care for ends up dead. I can’t add him to that list. He deserves better.”

“Shouldn’t he have the opportunity to decide?”

“I can’t see him hurt again.” His voice catches on the last word. “You saw the videos. You saw him…” Trevor trails off. “He was tortured.  _ Tortured _ , Mack.” 

“And my wife was kidnapped. David’s been through his fair share of pain. This program brings pain, Trevor. The people we love aren’t immune.”

“I know.” Trevor’s voice wavers again. “But I’ll still try to protect him.” 

 

#

 

_ But I’ll still try to protect him.  _

Philip thinks of Trevor’s words over the next few days, as his team members hover and do their best to help him. Carly distracts him when he wakes from nightmares. Marcy tends to his every medical need. MacLaren gives him all the info he can about Grinter, because somehow, knowing helps. Trevor’s a steady presence, never too close, but always there. Philip tries to meet his eye, but Trevor dutifully avoids his gaze. 

After a week, he’s left alone for the first time. He lays in bed, not quite sure what to do with himself, until he hears a knock on the door. His cuts and burns protest as he drags himself off the mattress to answer the door.

Trevor’s standing in the doorway, scuffing his feet against the ground. “I brought food. Chinese.” Trevor holds up the three bags, not meeting Philip’s eye. 

“Never tried it,” Philip says. 

“I think you’ll like it.” He clears his throat. “Can I come in?”

“Oh. Yeah, yeah. Come in.” Philip sets aside, feeling his face flush. He spent a week thinking of nothing but Trevor, and now that they’re together, he can barely look at him. 

“I didn’t know what you wanted, so… eat. You need it.” Trevor places the food between them. “You’ve lost a lot of weight.”

Philip digs into veggie noodles, listening to music playing in the background. Trevor sits next to him, a carton of rice and another with broccoli in hand. They eat in silence, until Trevor puts the food down and turns to face Philip. 

“I don’t think you’re weak,” he blurts. “You’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met.”

“I shot up,” Philip whispers. “I told you I wouldn’t.”

“You did. But it doesn’t make you weak, Phil. You try… you try so hard. And I was terrified. Whenever I see you like that…” Trevor sighs. “I feel afraid. Your host was about to overdose. You aren’t special. Drugs can kill you.”

Philip leans back on the couch, stomach turning. “I know. And I… I am sorry.” 

Trevor nods. “What still hurts?”

_ Everything.  _ Philip doesn’t say that his head aches constantly, that his nose bleeds and his wounds burn. Trevor probably knows. “I’m healing.”

“Good.” Trevor presses his thumb to the top of Philip’s hand, then looks away and swallows hard. “Can I spend the night?”

Philip studies Trevor’s open, pained expression.  _ Did you think I was gone?  _ he wanted to ask.  _ Did you look for me? Did you mourn for me?  _

“Yeah,” he says instead. Tears rise in his eyes, but he pushes them back. “I’d love that.”

 

#

 

Philip wakes in the night with a severe pain burning his stomach.

He stumbles from bed, knees weak and head spinning, into the bathroom, and collapses in front of the toilet. His tears from earlier force their way out, trail down his cheeks. He grabs the sides of the bowl and vomits, throat burning. 

“Phil?” Trevor asks behind him. “God, Philip.” 

“Go ‘way,” Philip mumbles. He retches again.

Trevor kneels beside him. 

Trevor pulls his hair away from his face as Philip empties his stomach. 

Bile burns through his throat, and once he’s finished, he’s trembling. He’s falling to the floor, but strong arms support him. Trevor cradles him against his chest and rubs his hand over his back; Philip tucks his head into Trevor’s neck, exhaling as Trevor runs his other hand through his hair. His body is drained of anything resembling strength, and all his limbs feel like they weigh a ton. 

“I’m sorry,” Philip says. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” Trevor reaches for a cloth and presses it under Philip’s nose. It comes away red, stained with blood. “Maybe Chinese wasn’t the best idea.” 

Philip leans into Trevor, closing his eyes. He wants to be closer. Hand to hand. Mouth to mouth. Skin to skin. 

“Can you say something to me?”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Come on, Phil.”

“I should be stronger by now.”

“They tortured you.” Trevor’s voice shakes. “They tore into your mind.”

“But I didn’t give anything away. I made sure to protect the future.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you did. You did.” Trevor lifts him, groaning slightly, and carries him from the bathroom to the bed. As Trevor tucks the blankets around him, Philip closes his eyes. “Try to get some sleep, yeah?”

“I thought of you,” Philip mumbles. “Every day.”

“Me too,” Trevor replies. “I wondered where you were. I wondered…” He trails off.

“What?”

“If I would ever see you again.” Trevor grips Philip’s shoulder. “Sleep. It’s good for you.”

 

#

 

_ You’re an experiment _ .

Knives slash across his back. 

Hands hold him down. 

Electricity shatters through him. 

Philip gasps and sits up in bed. His head spins as he grips the sheets, unable to move.  _ Breathe.  _ He pushes the blankets away and tries to stand, but he stumbles and falls to his hands and knees. Hands shaking, he raises his fingers to his neck, feeling the stitches where his comm was replaced. 

_ You’re an experiment.  _

“Philip?” 

Maybe he was an experiment. Ever since he was a child, the Director had molded him to be what he thought was  _ more _ than human. Not less. But his brain had been formed and reformed, molded and remolded. 

“Hey,” Trevor whispers. “Hey, look at me.” 

Philip trembles as Trevor kneels before him and cups his face in his hands. Trevor smooths his hair back.

“I’m an experiment,” Philip whispers. 

Trevor exhales, pressing their foreheads together. 

“That’s what they told me. Nothing I haven’t said before. They had theories, they had different methods, they got results and made modifications. I think they’re right.” 

He doesn’t wait for Trevor’s response. Instead, he stumbles to his feet and finds his way to the couch. Damn his memory. Damn what was done to him in the future. He wishes he could take something. Something to ease the pain. Something to make him forget for a moment. His breath comes in terrible gasps. Timelines blur before his eyes as he curls onto his side. 

“Phil.” Trevor kneels beside him again. “What can I do?”

Philip lays on his back, both hands pressed to his forehead. Everything  _ ached.  _ Every inch of skin, every muscle. 

“What can I do?”

He closes his eyes. Swallows his pride. “You can hold me.”

Trevor pauses. Philip thinks he’s overstepped some unspoken boundary before Trevor says, “Okay.” He rolls Philip onto his side then settles in behind him, wrapping one arm around Philip’s torso and tucking his legs into his. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m remembering. I can’t stop remembering.”

“I’m so sorry,” Trevor whispers into his neck. “I’m sorry I let them take you.”

Philip means to tell him that it isn’t his fault That he’s survived worse. That he wasn’t afraid, that he knew his life wouldn’t end in that cell. But a choked sob escapes instead, and soon enough, tears stream from his eyes uncontrollably. He scrunches his eyes shut, hoping his sobs would subside, but the gates in his chest open. Everything pours from him, and he can’t put everything back inside. He tries to pull away, but Trevor holds him closer. If Trevor let go, Philip thinks, he would crumble to dust. He turns into Trevor’s chest and sobs into his shirt, exhaling deeply as he runs his hand over his back. 

“I’m sorry,” Trevor murmurs again. “I’m so sorry.”

Once his sobs subside, he turns onto his back so that Trevor hovers above him. Trevor swipes his thumb under each eye, then presses his lips to Philip’s. Warmth shudders through him, nothing like heroine’s high, as Trevor’s dry lips move against his, soothing and urgent at the same time. Philip presses his hands to either side of Trevor’s face, pulling him closer. 

Trevor’s eyes ease open as he pulls away. “I don’t know…”

“Don’t apologize,” Philip says. 

“I don’t want to take advantage of you.”

“You’re the one who’s underage. They’d say I took advantage of you.” 

“We all know I’m not as young as I seem.”

“Will you kiss me again?” Philip exhales, running his hands over Trevor’s chest. “I’ve wanted this. I’ve wanted  _ you _ .” 

“Me too.” Trevor presses his lips to Philip’s. “Me too.”

 

#

 

They end up in bed together, Trevor’s arm curled around Philip. He nestles his head into Trevor’s collarbone as Trevor traces circles on his stomach. Sunset light streams through the window, bathing the rest of the garage in gold. Philip turns on his side, into the light, so he and Trevor are laying nose to nose. Philip leans forward and presses a kiss to Trevor’s forehead, closing his eyes and exhaling. 

“Hey,” Trevor says.

Philip smiles. “Hey.”

They don’t speak for a long time. Their hands and lips explore as dusk turns to darkness, as the light of the computer shines dimly on them. Trevor touches the skin around his cuts and burns, inhaling slightly. Philip leans into touch. His nose hasn’t bled in hours. The dull ache in his head has eased. He thinks it’s amazing and strangely hopeful how life can change in the matter of hours, for better or for worse. 

“When I saw those videos,” Trevor finally whispers, “I get why you saved me.”

“What?” Philip says.

“With Abby. I get why you did what you did.”

“I tried not to scream too much. I didn’t want everyone to worry.” As soon as he says it, it feels ridiculous. “I didn’t want you to have to see me like that.”

Trevor shakes his head. “I’d been looking for you for hours when we got that video. The others were, too. I didn’t want to admit it, but I knew something was wrong. I knew it would be bad. I knew I had to find you.”

“Trev—” 

“And when I saw you laying there, I thought the worst. I really thought we were too late.” 

“But you weren’t. And we’re here.” Philip tries not to think of the missions that lie ahead, that if the Director asks them to part, they may not have an option, that they are not truly Philip Pearson and Trevor Holden, but time travelers. 3326. 0115. 

Instead, he thinks that maybe, this can work. 

Trevor kisses him again, soft and sweet. 

As Philip kisses him back, he thinks that he deserves this. 

**Author's Note:**

> Content in this fic includes: Electrocution, an outside party forcibly invading a character's thoughts, a stabbing, nightmares, and vomiting. Take care if any of this disturbs you!!


End file.
